


Better Off Decapitated

by dragonnan



Category: Psych
Genre: And some chicken noodle soup, Gen, Illness, Not terribly comforting best friends, Shawn "the viral" Spencer, Shawn needs a hug, Slightly more comforting poppa bear, and all the ick that comes with it
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-04
Updated: 2016-12-04
Packaged: 2018-09-06 11:51:19
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,658
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8749663
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dragonnan/pseuds/dragonnan
Summary: Is it really that hard to get a little bit of sympathy?  Does he need to be bleeding for someone to see that he's in pain?  And care?  Wait a minute - is that his dad's house?





	

“It’s just a headache.”

 

“Sure Shawn. It could also be Swine flu. I’m taking you to your dad’s. And don’t breathe on me either.”

 

A challenge was it? Intending to do just that, Shawn turned his head, and abruptly hacked, causing Gus to lurch sideways in a frantic and fruitless attempt to dodge the spray. “Gah! Dude, mouth!” The wild action threw the little car into the next lane, thankfully free of traffic, before Gus managed to wrench it back- proceeding to lock his eyes on the highway while somehow bouncing a glare from the rearview mirror directly into Shawn’s forehead. “You could have killed us you idiot!”

 

Shawn rolled his eyes while rubbing at the spot where he swore he could feel a small burn mark forming from his friend’s laser sights. That or his headache was merely responding to the heightened levels of bitchy that was clouding the space around him like boiled egg flatulence.

 

Closing his eyes was better than blinking cow-like at Mr. Faces of Death. “Man this stinks.” he moaned while trying to rest the side of his skull against the passenger window. Several hard raps as the tires found every rut in the road and he was back to cradling his cranium in his cupped hands.

 

“I better not get sick Shawn. You know I can’t afford to take any more days off this month; Ogletree's been threatening furlough if I don't run my route according to his personal schedule.”

 

“What, like in between sending Haversham secret messages with his carrier pigeons?” Shawn chuckled but then gasped, immediately clutching his skull. Gus pressed his lips together while glancing at his friend once more.

 

“It’s just a migraine.” Shawn whined, trying and immediately discarding head massage as a technique for easing pain.

 

A disbelieving snort with the decibel level of a seven forty-seven drilled through his left cornea and started a minor brain bleed.

 

“Two minutes ago it was just a headache.”

 

Choosing to ignore the snidery of the comment, Shawn just folded down towards his lap, his fingers winding around to the back of his head. If he squeezed hard enough he could crack through the thick outer shell and release some of the pressure. Gus might be irritated by blood and brain matter on his dash, but sometimes sacrifices had to be made in the name of friendship.

 

“You okay?”

 

Did his vision just go blurry there for a second? That couldn’t be good. Maybe he needed to squeeze harder. “As you confirmed in your booming announcer voice, two minutes ago I told you it was just a headache.”

 

“And now?”

 

“Still a headache.”

 

The avenue of palm trees lining the road made intermittent stripes across the vehicle- brief shadows of fleeting coolness that only increased the drum of heat and light in the spaces between. The blast of air from the vents simply wasn’t enough to comfort his throbbing temples and he was ready for extreme measures involving tire irons and chloroform by the time Gus turned down the last street at the end of the block. Still hadn’t fixed that pothole he noted as the car jounced across the crater at the top of the driveway. Normally something Gus would drive through a lawn to avoid, the Grand Canyon of road hazards could not be bypassed except by vehicles equipped with wings. They both groaned as the Echo clawed back to smoother tar- though his friend’s distress had more to do with insurance premiums than his companion’s agony.

 

“Looks like your dad is gone…”

 

“Good, now you have no reason to leave me here. Just take me back to my apartment.”

 

“You’re the one that was crying about a burst water pipe and contacting FEMA.”

 

Shawn curled his fingers into the hair on the back of his head and slowly began to pull. “Yeah well… I think my couch… floats…”

 

The car dragged to a stop next to the overturned hulk of his father’s old boat- its perpetual disrepair drifting towards neglect now that it had been usurped by a shinier and bigger replacement. Not that his dad wouldn’t eventually start tinkering on the thing again once that new boat infatuation puppy-love spell ran its course.

 

“Shawn, are you sure you’re okay? You look pale.”

 

Another run of lung ripping coughs may not have been the best answer, but it was all he could manage until the furious wasps stabbing their stingers into his throat backed off again.

 

“Fine.” He croaked while popping open his door. Gus took a little longer to extract himself from behind the wheel, but at least he did so soon enough to catch Shawn when he collapsed in a mostly unintentional stumble.

 

“Shawn!” Gus's lungs sputtered as he wrapped his arm's around Shawn's waist. “I thought it was your head that hurt, not your legs!”

 

“Ow! Loud enough Boomey McYell!” Granted he could have slumped slightly less, but he was busy attempting to muffle the cacophony of bird chirps, leaf rattlings, and friend puffings that were seconds away from rupturing his symphonic membrane.

 

“It's called a tympanic membrane, Shawn-”

 

“Mph – I've heard it both ways...”

 

Testament to Gus's breathlessness that he didn't call him on that – though Shawn was sure his buddy likely had a variety of snippy responses hiding under his veneer of lung failure.

 

“You have that copy of your dad's house key?”

 

Shawn stumbled again as they mounted the stairs – Gus finally releasing him once he propped him against the rail. Shawn whimpered at the abandonment.

 

“You mean on me or on my kitchen counter next to my customized bottle of Aunt Jemima?”

 

“Are you still drawing bikini's on your syrup bottles?”

 

Shawn tried pinching the bridge of his nose next. Nope, no good. “Gus, don't be the color blue in a bag of M and Ms. You know I can't suppress my artistic impulses.”

 

“I wouldn't exactly call your impulses artistic.” Gus replied while feeling around the door frame. “Dude, doesn't your dad keep a spare someplace?”

 

“Dad doesn't believe in spares, why do you think I made a copy?” The needles slowly carving a path through his temples abruptly broke through the outer barrier and plunged into the unprotected material within.

 

“MMMMM-GUS! Just take me home! Or shoot me...”

 

“You may have noticed I don't carry a gun, Shawn.” Gus continued his search for the legendary spare key, pausing now and then to glance at his friend in clear concern. “However I can bludgeon you with a shovel if you like.”

 

Shawn finally let gravity work in his favor as he dropped into one of the deck chairs. “Which shovel, the one locked in the house? The one we can't get to because someone didn't ask for someone's spare key because someone felt like going all Frank Martin?”

 

Gus's retort, which would likely have caused a subdermal hemorrhage, was lost in the shuddering commotion of a vehicle bouncing across uneven tar. Shawn squinted between his fingers, and then immediately closed them again with a defeated moan as his father's truck traversed the same pitted road as the Echo had minutes before.

 

“What fabulous timing.” He muttered, then lifted his head to stare at Gus. “Almost... as though he knew we were here.” He sat up a bit more even though the motion ratcheted up the furious brain drilling to new levels. “Dude, you called him?”

 

Shrugging, Gus stuck his hands in his pockets and stared back with eyes that almost appeared bored. The smirk may not be visible but Shawn knew it was hiding just beneath the betraying facade of false innocence.

 

By now his father's truck had slowed to a stop, kicking up a small cloud of grit.

 

As Henry killed the engine and began sliding from the seat, Shawn let his forehead sink back onto his crossed arms. “Well thank you, Cypher.”

 

“Shawn, you aren't Neo and I'm not selling you out! If I let you take care of yourself you'd end up calling me every five minutes for water or food or because your pillow needs fluffing!”

 

“So what, you're saying you wouldn't fluff my pillow? You'd let me risk lumbar distortion just to save a few bucks on gas?” He tsked in disgust while Gus stubbornly crossed his arms. Meanwhile his father walked their way, several plastic bags hanging from one hand.

 

“Shawn, Gus.” He greeted as he brushed by them on his way to the door.

 

While his father entered the house, Shawn stared up at his friend, putting as much intensity into his eyes as he could muster given the agony he was fighting. “You still want that special edition Spider Girl comic signed by Stan Lee? I could get that for you. I could get you all the comics you want.”

 

Gus's lips snapped quickly as he straightened, one hand raised to point. “That was my comic book Shawn! You told me it got sold by accident during one of my mom's garage sales!”

 

“Sold, borrowed, it's all a confusion of semantics, Gus. The point being I can hook you up! You just need to help a brother out. What say you?”

 

Gus's eyebrows lifted. Then, after a short, heated glare, he stormed inside.

 

“Gus? So is that a yes!?” Yelling had instant consequences and Shawn gripped his forehead once more as fractures began to form across his cerebellum.

 

“Ow, ow ow!”

 

From inside, a voice drifted out with all the loving tones of a jackhammer.

 

“Shawn, get inside and close the door – you're letting bugs in!”

 

Heaven forbid he pass out from this mindless torture and allow the house to become infested with vermin. Sighing, wincing from even that tiny sound, Shawn dragged himself from the railing.

 

There better have been chicken soup in one of those bags.

 

 

o0o0o0o

 

 

 

Gus hung out at the house long enough to ensure the baton had securely been transferred before applying his enviable running skills to darting for his car. Honestly, though, he could have wandered a winding path that took him to the beach – listened to the ocean in a few little mermaid bras – flirted with a few leggy lovelies – and taken a half hour nap on the sand and he'd still have been able to beat Shawn to his car.

 

“Here.”

 

Shawn creaked one eye open just enough to make out the blurry form beside him. He couldn't be certain but it looked like his father was offering him drugs. About damn time.

 

He tried to reach for the proffered dosage, but was waylaid by the combined attack of shaking hands and a coughing fit – resulting in sharp, throbbing bolts of pain stabbing into his scalp. He managed a single squeak between hacks – pretty sure that vomiting oven cleaner couldn't possibly hurt worse than this violent assault.

 

“How long has this been going on?”

 

God how much he wanted to ease his suffering with any number of responses – of course his father would take advantage of his weakness to set himself up so perfectly, well knowing his son was in no condition to do much more than groan.

 

“Zunday...” He slurred while reaching out again, hoping the pills hadn't wandered too far. His fumbling wasn't missed, apparently, as felt fingers wrap around the back of his hand, steadying it while the medication was pressed into his palm. He got them into his mouth as quickly as he was able, and then those same fingers held his head while a bottle of water was pressed against his lips. He drank more than he needed to get the pills down, the cold liquid reminding him abruptly of how thirsty he was.

 

“It's Saturday, Shawn. Are you saying you've had a headache for a week?”

 

Was that a multiple choice question? Shawn swallowed once more, the final gulp going down like broken glass.

 

“That means...” he winced, grasping both his throat and skull while trying to decide which one hurt the most, “either I've traveled through time or... _KUH KUH_... uugh... forget it...” He trailed off, the attempt not really worth the struggle. Besides, he wasn't totally certain his father had asked a question that really needed to be clarified.

 

The sigh and rustle as his dad stepped away from the couch was a good enough answer. Maybe the old man was going for his gun... Nah, Henry would never be so merciful. He'd put a dying mouse out of its misery before ever doing the same for his son – evidenced by the years and years of mindless torture he'd forced his offspring to endure.

 

Another wave twisted against his temples and Shawn crushed his face into the pillow beneath him to muffle the helpless scream. His throat was stripped raw from the vocalization but at least he'd spared his head added pain. Now if only the damn sun would set cause even with the lights off and shades drawn the light seeping inside cut like blades through his closed lids.

 

Pounding steps thundered slowly across the floor, each footfall drilling in his brain, the long fought nausea rising fast – too fast.

 

“Shawn, I...”

 

“ _HOOURK!”_ His father made a sharp noise of surprise, quickly drowned in the whimper filled gag as Shawn threw up, mostly missing the couch but not his father's shoes. He actually tried to apologize before the wrenching reflex took over again.

 

Then, all he knew was pain and heat and burning acid, and the feel of something cool on the back of his neck.

 

Some centuries later, trying not to sob as he was gently eased back onto his pillow, he finally felt the convulsions in his stomach settle – leaving shakiness and a pulverized abdomen in the wake of voiding.

 

The same coolness he'd felt on his neck he now felt brushing against his cheeks – wiping away moisture and easing the flush he could feel just under the surface. The cloth lifted away for just a second, a light splash following, and then it returned to move across his face once again. The process repeated over and over, each time it did, his muscles relaxing just a little more. His head continued to throb, but the cold helped – especially when the cloth was finally laid across his eyes.

 

“Mmm...”

 

“Think you can handle a bit more water?” The whisper was as soft as baby puma fur. Apparently his father had some mercy in him after all.

 

“Mmm.” He repeated, hoping he wouldn't be required to provide more detailed articulation. All those years interrogating drunks, druggies, and the barely bilingual seemed to have worked, though, as his father correctly interpreted his answer.

 

Only lifting his head high enough to prevent choking, Henry once more placed the bottle to his lips. This time Shawn managed to finish off the remaining water in just a few swallows – wincing at the dry scape in his tonsils.

 

He was resettled, and then there was additional activity as his father began cleaning up his reenactment of the Exxon Valdez. More back and forth to the kitchen followed, as well as the stink of lemon cleaner that threatened to undo all of Henry's hard work.

 

Shawn began to drift a little while his father was still scrubbing at the floor. Apparently either he'd managed to ingest some of the medication or his body was exhausted enough from a week of barely sleeping that it was finally forcing unconsciousness.

 

Whatever the cause he welcomed it. And, when the commotion beside him finally ceased and a soft touch brushed the hair off his forehead before moving to replace the warmed cloth on his eyes with a fresh cool one, he welcomed that too.

 

As true sleep finally began to take him down, he breathed out a long sigh, slurring words just loud enough for his father to hear.

 

“Th'nksss-dad.”

 

A soft blanket was tugged up to his chin before the fingers smoothed back his hair one more time.

 

“You're welcome, kid.”


End file.
